


Pre-Show

by bactaqueen



Series: AFI ABH [2]
Category: AFI
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 22:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2286270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam is late, but he makes it up to you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pre-Show

**Author's Note:**

> Summary: Adam is late, but he makes it up to you.
> 
> Author's Note: Originally posted February 2010.

The band on stage is lit in full garish glory, colors dancing and twisting to the rhythm of the music, and before the stage the bodies of the thousand-plus crowd are already pressed together in one writhing mass. But here at the back of the long room, the bar is cool and dark and noticeably quieter. You sit, facing the long line of the mirror at the back, seeing your reflection through the light-refracting bottles of booze, watching the crowd and watching the show and waiting.   
  
Adam promised to meet you here. In fact, he had specifically requested your company on this night, at this place, for this show. You got all dressed up, ventured here, all for him. Because you find it impossible to turn him down. You did this, for him, and he's late. You sip your drink, pursing your lips around the straw, and you examine the picture of you in the mirror. It's a shame he's not here to see this. It's a shame he's not thinking of what you want him to think. You raise your head, give yourself a small secret smile, smooth your hair. Everything is perfect from the coif to the shoes and you know it. The only thing missing is him.  
  
You glance down. Your phone remains stubbornly dark and silent. The angle of the lights lets you see the clock on the screensaver, though, and he really is officially late. You begin to wonder if he's going to show, and how long you should wait. If he were any other guy, you wouldn't even have waited this long. But he's not any other guy. He's Adam.  
  
Big, calloused hands land on your shoulders and smooth down your arms to cup your elbows. Warm lips touch your neck and there's the sound of someone breathing in deeply.   
  
His voice is soft like faraway thunder. “You smell good.”  
  
Very briefly, you close your eyes to enjoy the warmth of him. Then, “You're late,” in the sternest voice you can manage. The nuns responsible for your early education would be proud.  
  
Adam shifts his body so you feel the brush of his hips against your back. Your eyes lock on his face in the mirror, and he's smiling, smiling because he knows you're not angry with him, smiling because he knows he can get away with murder as far as you're concerned. His black hair is perfectly tousled, his blue eyes are bright even in the unpredictable light, his lips are immensely kissable. He knows that his just being near affects you—and the bastard pretends that he doesn't know this.   
  
He leans against the bar, his body turned toward yours, and he doesn't say anything. He doesn't apologize, or offer any excuses. He only flags down the bartender and places his order. It's plain old Budweiser in a bottle, and it does nothing to tarnish his charm.   
  
You lean back a little, just to look at him. It's been a while—too long, if anyone asks, but of course they won't. You never get tired of looking at the long, lean lines of his body, the masculine angle of his jaw. He didn't shave before he showed up here. You stifle a shiver. Oh, you're going to enjoy that.   
  
Later. Right now, you're going to milk this. He may act like the non-chalant god of your world, but he's still a good guy, and he has made a mistake.   
  
You wait for him to meet your eyes again before you say, “You're late, Carson. You left me waiting here. You're not that special. What are you going to do to make it up to me?”  
  
Adam takes a long pull from his beer, studying you over the length of the amber bottle. He has the look of a lion drinking from the shared watering hole, watching the other predators. His eyes slide down, over your throat, over the low-cut top, over the short skirt, all the way to the fuck-me heels and back up. The shadows in his eyes change, and suddenly he's the only predator at the watering hole.   
  
Under normal circumstances, you are not prey. Circumstances are never normal when Adam is involved.  
  
“What do you want me to do?”  
  
Concealing another shiver of anticipation, you give him a pointed look. He should know by now that you only ever want one thing from him.  
  
Smiling, almost chuckling, Adam merely shakes his head. “I want to see the headliners. We're not going home yet.”  
  
You could pout. Luckily, you have more poise than that. “There's always the car.”  
  
Adam closes the distance between you. He sets his beer on the bar, next to your drink, and leans over you, crowding you, possessing. His warm fingers find the inside of your knee.   
  
“There's always right here, too,” he points out.  
  
Your lungs never have a chance when he's this close.   
  
You can feel his smile more than you can see it, his lips gently curving against your ear. His hand moves to the inside of your thigh, just under the hem of the skirt, teasing, offering a promise you're not prepared to refuse. His gentle smile is a full-blown smirk now.   
  
“Is there something wrong?”  
  
“You wouldn't,” you manage breathlessly.  
  
He nips your earlobe. “Wouldn't I?” His voice is a purr.  
  
Before your brain realizes what he's doing, Adam has you turned just slightly toward him, and his knee is nudging between yours, parting your legs just enough to allow his long, thick fingers to work their magic. He strokes those fingertips up the soft skin of your inner thigh, first the left, then the right. The shift of his body blocks what he's doing from the view of anyone who might want to look; the two of you are just another couple locked in intimate conversation. Momentarily, you think how cute it is that he protects your modesty. Then his lips touch your ear, and he's whispering to you, and your brain shuts down.  
  
His fingers graze the smooth material covering your cunt, and you're very aware of the heat there. You swallow hard, want to shut your eyes, but that might give away the truth of this encounter, and you're not willing to share this, not even with a curious stranger. You lift a hand, slide it around his back. Your fingers curl against his shirt and you turn your face toward his ear.   
  
“I hope you don't expect me to stop.” He slips fingers along the cleft of your cunt through the panties, puts a little extra pressure on the nub of your clit.   
  
“Wouldn't dream of it,” you manage.  
  
Adam rubs the pad of his thumb in circles over your clit as his knuckles rock pressure over your center, all of it a cruel promise. You want to spread your legs, lean back, offer yourself up like you always do. The limited area of the bar stool, the public location, and his imposing body prevent that. So you lick your lips, flicking your tongue at his ear, and you remind yourself to breathe.   
  
The rough pads of his fingers scrape your panties to the side. Adam slips his fingers in, parting the lips of your cunt, grazing the sensitive tip of your clit, moving down to tease at your entrance.   
  
Smiling against your ear, he murmurs, “Don't make a sound. You don't want us to get caught.”  
He pushes one finger inside you.   
  
The gasp is involuntary, as are your nails suddenly digging into his back through the shirt.   
  
Adam pumps that finger slowly. He doesn't touch your clit, only slowly and carefully fucks you with his thick middle finger. He's so steady, so deliberate. In, out. In, out.  
  
You feel full. Your knees shake, and your clit strains. Pressure, a touch, a breath, you don't care, you need something. Your hand moves from the bar to his arm, and you try to force his hand up, try to force him to release the pressure inside you.   
  
Instead, Adam blesses you with a second finger and a quick twist, and there are two fingers pumping into you, curving, stroking, and his thumb plays your clit.   
  
Your body strains closer to his.   
  
Adam presses his fingers deep and curls them while his thumb circles your clit, edging closer and closer, building the pressure inside you. His mouth is hot against your ear and you know he's speaking, but you can't hear his words through the blood pounding in your head. The fingers of his right hand curl around your wrist, and he moves your hand from its death grip on his arm to his crotch, to the stiff bulge of his cock contained by the rough denim of his blue jeans.   
  
You whimper. You only ever whimper for him.   
  
His fingers move faster, harder. Light dances through the gloom over his shoulder, and you're close, so close to the edge, full up, needy, surrounded by the warmth and scent of him...  
Adam flicks his wrist and curls his fingers against that magic place inside and twists his thumb over your clit, and you're coming, biting your lip and clinging to him, trying not to cry out, lost in the orgasm and still dimly aware that you need to control yourself even now. There's a reason, you know it, but your brain drained of blood can't find the memory you need. You can't breathe; your stubborn lungs refuse to function.   
  
Very slowly, the noise of the crowd comes back to you. Your lungs spasm, and you're sucking in a stale breath. Adam is still close to you, his body wrapped around yours, his hand under your skirt. He's petting your cunt, stroking it like a favored pet, teasing the inside of your thigh with his damp fingers. When your breathing is even, finally, he kisses your neck and pretends to whisper something, then he pulls away.   
  
He is smirking when you look at him. He manages to keep that smirk even as he takes a long pull from his beer. You watch him, watch his lips at the glass, watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.   
  
You sip your own drink, grateful for the slide and burn down your parched throat. You tell him mildly, “If you think you're off the hook, you are mistaken.”  
  
Adam laughs, lowers his beer, and then his lips are on yours, drinking you up, and his kiss is full of promise. “There's plenty more where that came from,” he assures you. He turns to face the stage and gestures with his beer. “After the show.”  


End file.
